


de somnis veritas

by gammadolphin



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Kidnapping, M/M, Picnics, Pining, Protectiveness, Temporary Amnesia, just the one really but for some reason that tag was plural
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-08-14 01:40:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20184124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gammadolphin/pseuds/gammadolphin
Summary: Aziraphale had rather been hoping that averting the Apocalypse would reduce the number of problems he had to deal with.And then he starts having dreams about a certain golden-eyed demon. Dreams that get him in serious trouble, even before he realizes they feel an awful lot like memories...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, Good Omens took over my life a couple months ago, and here is the result. Huge thanks to [bisasterdi](https://bisasterdi.tumblr.com/) for being an amazing beta on this fic, to [incredulousanteater](https://incredulousanteater.tumblr.com/) for looking over the first chapter, and to [silver-colour](https://silver-colour.tumblr.com/) for the help with the title.

Angels don't sleep.

At least, that’s what most of them would tell you. For most angels couldn't imagine ever feeling the need to shut themselves down the way fragile humans did, to open their orderly minds to the unpredictable whims of the world of dreams.

Of course, Aziraphale wasn't most angels. His peers would have been baffled, and perhaps a little horrified, to discover that sleeping was one of the earthly pleasures he'd picked up over his millennia spent minding humanity, along with marshmallows and bath bombs.

Over the past eleven years however, Aziraphale hadn't gotten much sleep. There was nothing quite like an impending apocalypse to keep one up at night, not to mention all the time he'd spent looking after Warlock. And then of course there had been the matter of planning something of a coup against the combined forces of Heaven and Hell, which had taken more than a little doing.

So when all was said and done, after all the fuss about the end of the world and kidnapping and witches and swapping bodies, Aziraphale had never been quite so ready for a good night's sleep. Lunch with Crowley at the Ritz had turned into an afternoon stroll with Crowley around the city though, which had then become drinks with Crowley at one of their favorite old bars, and it was rather late by the time he finally got the chance. 

Choosing to remain a little tipsy, he returned to the tidy flat tucked overtop his miraculously restored - did it count as miraculous if it was the work of the Antichrist? He should ask Crowley, that seemed like the kind of thing he'd have an opinion on - bookshop. He went to the bedroom he'd used so sparsely in recent years, and a contented smile curled his lips.

Lining the walls were shelves full of some of the treasures he'd collected over the years. Things that might have seemed meaningless to the casual observer, but that marked one angel's millennia spent watching over humanity.

He had a jar of sand that had once been part of Eden’s walls, the first block of carved wood used in printing a book, a bundle of desiccated reeds that had once been woven into a basket sturdy enough to carry a baby along a river. Also present was the scalpel a British doctor had used to test a cowpox inoculation, a battered doll that had been presented personally to Aziraphale by a solemn-eyed little girl over a thousand years ago, and a goldfish that didn’t realize it should have been dead for decades, swimming in circles around the same plastic bag in which it had been won.

Among the reminders of humanity rested another memento, a single feather of a color that seemed at once the darkest of blacks and yet capable of shining with the light of a million galaxies. Aziraphale felt his gaze linger on the feather, and he reached out a hesitant hand. It was the oldest thing in his collection, but he didn't worry about the years weakening it.

He'd had it with him since the beginning, that first thunderstorm over Eden. It was the only thing Crowley had left behind when he went to follow Adam and Eve on their journey into exile.

All those millennia ago, Aziraphale could never have guessed how much the demon with the jet wings and golden eyes would come to mean to him. And yet, even back then, at the beginning of it all, something had drawn him to Crowley. The merest hint of what was to come.

Shaking his head, Aziraphale withdrew his hand and turned away from the shelf with the feather.

_We're on our side_, Crowley kept telling him, and Aziraphale knew it to be true. He still believed in his mission, in the Almighty Herself, but Heaven as an administrative body could bugger off. An angelic lifetime was a long time to spend believing in something though, and it wouldn't be easy for him to let go of some of his old hang-ups.

Aziraphale had quite a bit of practice pushing Crowley from his thoughts, and by the time he was settled into his cozy bed for a well-earned sleep, he had almost completely rid his mind of the demon. Unfortunately, his subconscious didn't seem to have been briefed on the plan.

One of the things Aziraphale had always liked most about sleep, aside from the positively transcendent feeling of waking up without an alarm or any immediate needs to attend to, was dreaming. Everything in dreams was so charmingly improbable; enough like real life to be interesting, but without all the cumbersome rules and expectations and humans being nasty to one another. Aziraphale also happened to be the one to discover that angels dream in five dimensions. Not that he considered this a discovery; having never had a human dream, he didn't realize his were any different.

Normally, his dreams were of relatively mundane subjects. A flight through the cosmos, perhaps, or winning an argument with the rude gentleman who unfortunately owned one of the best restaurants in London. One of his favorite dreams featured a rainy night spent tucked away in his cozy backroom, a cup of cocoa steaming away at the perfect temperature in his hand while he read, a black and red serpent coiled in a lazy heap by the fire.

Still, it seemed fitting that after the end and subsequent reboot of the world, his dreams wouldn't be quite what he'd expected either.

_There was laughter echoing in his ears, familiar as the sunrise and yet different somehow, more carefree and content than he had ever heard it. He looked to his side and smiled at the sight of Crowley doubled over, head in his hands as he shook with mirth, and was pleased with the knowledge that he'd been the one to make it happen._

_Then he was lounging sprawled on a grassy riverbank, a book in one hand and the other stroking absently over the thick red hair of the demon using his belly as a pillow. The sun was shining down on them both, and he basked in the contentment emanating from Crowley as he soaked in the warmth._

_He was running, faster than any reasonable person should have to. Crowley was half a pace ahead of him, cackling, his whole face lit up with mischief as he cast the occasional glance at the angry mob that seemed hell-bent on catching up to them._

_He was standing on a sloping hill, an arm wrapped around his middle, a chin resting on his shoulder, as they peered up at the dazzling blanket of stars stretched overhead and a soft voice murmured to him stories about their creation._

Aziraphale woke altogether too early in the morning, hands over his heart. Even in consciousness, he thought he could feel the warmth of another hand there, cupped in his own.

The sensation faded as he tried to grasp at it though, and Aziraphale was left baffled and aching for reasons he wasn't quite sure he wanted to understand.

He sat up on the edge of his bed, mouth dry as he tried to make sense of that incomprehensible barrage of dreams. Without meaning to, his eyes found the shelf that held Crowley's feather, as if it could be blamed for the episode. But that was ridiculous. It had been there for centuries, and never in all the time he'd been sleeping had Aziraphale ever felt something like that.

So why now? Was it that he had finally broken so many rules that this last one had stopped mattering to his traitorous subconscious?

Rules, after all, had kept Aziraphale from acknowledging the feelings he'd had for years. Well, _feelings_ was perhaps not quite strong enough of a word. It had taken until last week for the gap between knowing this and admitting it to finally begin to close. Was his subconscious trying to finish the job?

Sighing, Aziraphale rubbed at his eyes. There was no job to finish, if he was honest with himself. He was in love with Crowley, had known it for longer than most of today’s humans had been alive. He didn’t need the reminder, which meant this was something else.

Wish fulfillment, perhaps? A definite possibility, perhaps even a probability. But…but what he had never even allowed himself to consider was the possibility that his sentiments might be reciprocated.

For so long, only madness and heartache had existed down that road. Even if Crowley had felt the same way, then what? Friendship with a demon was one thing, but to be in love with one…no, Aziraphale hadn’t been able to think like that. Not until the End of Days had ripped away so many illusions and forced him to confront some hard truths.

And now that it had…

Aziraphale shook his head. He was being ridiculous. He knew Crowley cared for him, but surely that was all it was. He was still an angel after all, and Crowley had never made a secret of his disdain for Heaven.

So. A subconscious manifestation of his own feelings. That was all the dream had been.

Thus reassured, Aziraphale got up and started his day. He wanted to do a full inventory of the bookshop, to make sure that being willed back into existence by the Antichrist hadn’t muddled anything up. Not that he thought Adam would have made any negative changes on purpose. He really was a good boy, as it turned out - everything Aziraphale and Crowley had hoped Warlock would be when they'd set out on their misguided endeavor as godfathers. But the boy didn't exactly know much about the proper setup and maintenance of a centuries-old bookshop, and it wasn't out of the question for him to have gotten some of the details wrong when he'd put it all back together.

But even as he worked, as he puttered and cataloged and made sure everything was in the proper place, his thoughts kept returning, again and again, to his extraordinary dreams. He beat them back more and more savagely each time, and was in the middle of one particularly pitched battle when the ring of his telephone nearly sent him jumping out of his newly-restored skin.

There were any number of people who could’ve been calling. Aziraphale had curated a number of contacts in the world of antique books, and it wasn't unusual for him to hear from one of them. He also got contacted every once in a while by someone who had heard he was among the best in the world at acquiring rare books, and had a specific request for him. And more and more frequently, he was getting calls from people who didn't seem to know who he was at all, but wanted to sell him all manner of things he didn't need, or inform him that he’d been chosen for a free cruise.

But as the phone continued to ring, some part of Aziraphale knew it wasn't any of those people on the other end of the line.

He only hesitated a moment before picking up the receiver.

"Hello?"

_“Still in one piece, then?”_ It was Crowley’s voice, because of course it was, and Aziraphale tried not to examine too closely the flurry of different emotions that swept through his chest at the sound.

“Quite. Haven’t seen so much as an angel food cake.” Which was no great loss, really. Aziraphale didn’t care much for the dessert, much to Crowley’s ongoing amusement. “I daresay our plan has worked marvelously.”

_“I think we’ve tempted Fate enough for this century, don’t you?”_

“Must you always be so pessimistic?”

_“It’s called being realistic, actually, and apparently yes, because my partner refuses to be anything but a relentless optimist.”_

Oh. Aziraphale rather liked that word. Partner. It could mean so many different things, from bank robbery to courtship, but all of them put him and Crowley on the same side. 

What had once been a terrifying prospect had become a reality that left him with a warm feeling inside.

*****

Crowley had apparently just called to check in, and they didn’t stay on the phone much longer. Nerves were still understandably raw after their would-be executions, and Aziraphale suspected it would be some time before either of them stopped looking over their shoulders entirely.

He elected not to sleep that night. He told himself that it was because he didn't need to, because he'd gone many long years without sleep before, and a single day and night may as well have been the blink of an eye. Besides, he did have quite a bit to be getting on with. Several new books had appeared on his shelves, and he wanted to track down their providence. Not to mention that he'd let the place go a little in his concern over the impending apocalypse, and he had a good deal of dusting to do. These were the sorts of things that were best done during the nighttime hours, so that his days could be spent attending to customers, when there were any.

His ability to lie to himself had been sorely tested over the past week though, and he knew he was avoiding sleep because it was the only surefire way to avoid dreams. There had been quite enough confusion in his life of late, and he didn't need to be piling on. Whatever his feelings for Crowley were, it was hard enough understanding them when he was awake. His subconscious could simply wait its turn.

Which, of course, was why it made absolutely no sense that the first thing he did the following morning was pick up his telephone and ring the number he'd memorized.

_"Aziraphale?"_ Crowley's voice asked after only a ring and a half. _"Everything okay?"_

Having never had occasion to discover the wonder of caller ID, Aziraphale couldn't help being a little pleased that Crowley had known who he was right away. Although it was a sorry state of things, that a call from him prompted immediate concern for his safety.

"Yes, yes, quite all right," Aziraphale assured him. "I was just thinking, since we're already defying Heaven and Hell and all that, it seems to me that further..." his lips twitched. "Further fraternization isn't likely to get us in more trouble than we already are, and…” Here he paused, feeling as though he was teetering on the edge of something important, something he couldn’t take back. Screwing up his courage, he forged ahead. “Well, we never did have that picnic..."

He waited, unaccountably nervous. It wasn't as if this was the first time he'd reached out to Crowley for a rendezvous. Despite the positively dreadful things he'd said out of fear, the two of them were good friends, and had been for quite some time now.

Apparently, he needn't have worried.

_"Yeah, I could do with a picnic,"_ Crowley said, and Aziraphale hoped he wasn't imagining that he sounded a bit pleased. _"So long as you're not cooking."_

It was a fair condition. For as much as he loved experiencing all of the world's culinary wonders, any and all of Aziraphale's attempts to recreate them himself had been catastrophic. Still, just because it was true didn't mean he needed to be reminded of his failings.

"You know, I wasn't going to, but just for that, I think I'll bring along one of my famous strawberry currant Swiss rolls."

_"Oh, come on, angel, don't."_ Crowley sounded vaguely panicked now. _"Famous for what? Being classifiable as an instrument of torture?"_

Aziraphale was glad for the distance between them that hid his smile from Crowley. It would have made it much harder to pull off a scolding tone otherwise.

"I think I've changed my mind. I'd rather have lunch by myself than endure such rude and baseless remarks."

_"Mhm. I'll pick you up in an hour."_

Crowley hung up, and Aziraphale realized he was still smiling like an idiot. He hurriedly put down the handset and went to assemble a picnic basket for two.

*****

It wasn't until Aziraphale climbed into the Bentley, his stomach swooping as though he hadn't done it a hundred times before, that he realized they hadn't specified a destination for this outing of theirs. Wherever it was, they were going to get there fast.

He was a little startled to realize that he didn't mind their lack of destination. It would have been wildly inaccurate to say that Crowley had never steered him wrong, but for all his grumbling, Aziraphale still trusted him behind the wheel.

"St. James?" Aziraphale asked.

"Thought we'd try for a change of scenery this time. Get out of the city for a bit."

"More or less exotic than Tadfield?"

Crowley shot him a glare that could be felt even through the tint of his glasses.

"Ah. Not ready to joke about that yet. Noted."

"Are _you_?" Crowley sounded surprised. "I figured you'd be a little more put out by the whole thing, to be honest."

Aziraphale gave that a bit of thought.

"Hm. You know, it's actually a bit...well, freeing, I suppose. One spends so long worrying about something, it becomes worse than the thing itself."

"So, getting discorporated, mucking up the Apocalypse, Heaven and Hell trying to execute us; you're saying all that was a bit of a let down?" A bemused smirk played at the edges of Crowley's mouth, and he took his gaze off the road for a worrying amount of time to look over at Aziraphale.

"Your words, not mine."

The smirk blossomed into a full-blown grin, and Crowley shook his head.

"You are an odd one, angel."

Aziraphale tried not to look too pleased.

*****

The day hadn't been planning on being beautiful when it dawned that morning, but it didn't dare interfere with the plans of Heaven and Hell's most wanted. So the sun was shining down on them and the skies were a clear, crystalline blue when they finally pulled into a carpark that was really little more than a large patch of gravel set away from the road.

Aziraphale hadn’t been paying much attention to the scenery as they drove, not wanting to be unsettled by the sight of it whizzing by at speeds never intended by God or nature. He looked now though, as Crowley led him to the head of a path that sloped down a gentle hill.

They stood at the top of a verdant valley that was nestled comfortably between rolling mounds of earth. A shallow stream splashed and bubbled happily through its center, and there were trees dotted along the water’s edge, their leaves shining like emeralds in the sun.

The air radiated…peace. Not the kind created by a lack of noise or other people, but the kind that went much deeper, so rare in a land that had been contested over and over throughout history. This was the kind of peace that could only be born of never having seen battle or bloodshed, or the scourge of illness and grief.

Somehow, throughout all of history, this little pocket of creation had remained unsullied by conflict. That seemed a miracle as powerful as any Aziraphale could perform.

He felt Crowley’s eyes on him, and a hint of something that felt suspiciously like anxiety emanating from him as he waited for a reaction.

"It's lovely," Aziraphale declared, smiling broadly as he took in their surroundings. A gentle breeze ruffled the grass and filled his nose with air fresher and sweeter than any that could be found in the city.

"Thought you might like it." Crowley’s shoulders had relaxed, and he sounded pleased with himself. Aziraphale felt his smile warm.

They settled down in a spot by the creek, close enough to hear the cheerful bubble of its passage over the rocks. Knowing how Crowley liked to sun himself, Aziraphale had positioned them away from the shade of the trees along the bank.

"Oh, are you trying to prove a point now, is that it?" Crowley complained when he spotted the blanket Aziraphale pulled from the top of the picnic hamper. "Force me into contact with as much tartan as possible?"

Aziraphale attempted to give him a severe look, which he probably didn't quite manage.

"No," he said primly. "I am simply choosing to ignore your baseless prejudice against it, and using what I would have anyway. Besides, this is the Clan Lumsden tartan, and they were lovely people. I blessed their chief's son, and they couldn't have been sweeter about it. Always set a place for me at their table, and a number of them even named their children after me."

"What, you're telling me there were a bunch of tiny little Scots running around named _Aziraphale_?"

"Er- well, no. I told them my name was Ailsie."

Crowley laughed, one of the real ones that always managed to warm something deep inside Aziraphale.

"But, if you do so strenuously object to my choice of blanket, you are more than welcome to sit on the ground."

This earned him a roll of the eyes that was palpable even through darkened lenses, but Crowley made no further protest.

As they settled down, Aziraphale was struck by a powerful wave of what the humans had named deja vu. One of his strange dreams had featured a spot quite like this one, he realized. One where Crowley had been draped over him in a luxurious sprawl, radiating lazy bliss as Aziraphale stroked his hair. There had been the same feeling of untouchable peace in the air, the same warmth of comfortable companionship.

The comparison practically screamed at Aziraphale as he sat beside Crowley, and he hurried to place the hamper of food between them. As if that would help him beat his thoughts back into something resembling rational order.

Aziraphale hadn't made good on his threat to cook something, so the spread was quite an impressive one. For a while, things were normal again as they both tucked in and lost themselves to the distraction of a good meal. Well, Crowley seemed more taken with the selection of wines Aziraphale had brought along, but that hardly seemed an important distinction.

They settled into an easy conversation about some of their respective exploits in a wilder Scotland than today's. It lasted until the food was gone, and a good amount of the wine with it.

But then it lulled into a natural silence, and the danger returned. With a contented sigh, Crowley flopped backward and stretched, his body rippling just a touch too languidly to look entirely human. Aziraphale’s eyes fixed on the motion, and he swallowed.

Once again, that dratted memory came back. He wondered what it would be like to recreate it in reality, to have Crowley relaxed against him like that, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. His fingers seemed to hum with the memory of running them through Crowley's hair. Would it feel the same in person as it had in the dream?

"Okay, out with it."

Aziraphale jumped as he suddenly found himself under the irritated scrutiny of the demon at his side. Damn, had he been staring? Well, how could he not, with those kinds of things running through his poor head?

"Out with what?" he asked, hiding a wince at how breathless he sounded. He'd always been positively dreadful at lying, and Crowley knew him better than anyone else on Earth or in Heaven.

"Whatever's got you staring at me like I'm some kind of- of Christmas ham.”

“I-” Aziraphale shifted, orienting his whole body to face towards the stream in front of them instead of his companion. He would have tugged at his lapels, had he been wearing a garment that had any. “I’m doing nothing of the sort.”

"Yes you are, you're ogling."

"Angels do not _ogle_." Indignation made him forget his intention not to look at Crowley anymore, and he swiveled back around. "I was merely observing. Am I not allowed to look at you anymore? Or have you suddenly developed an allergy to the direct gaze of a heavenly being?"

Crowley stuck his tongue out at him, its forked end hissing through the air. Aziraphale rolled his eyes, and tried not to find it charming.

“I do hope the air tastes like swamp water,” he said severely, knowing how sensitive Crowley’s serpentine tastebuds were.

“Nah. Pollution’s not got their hands on this creek yet.” Crowley gave him a lopsided grin and clicked his tongue. “The minnows in it have got a touch of scale rot though. Seems like the kind of thing any decent angel would be concerned by.”

“Well, I’ve recently been quite reliably informed that I’m not a very decent angel.” Still, Aziraphale snapped his fingers, and every trace of illness was gone from the stream. It was also now host to a somewhat confused population of jellyfish. Aziraphale had stumbled across the creatures in an old nature program once, and thought them simply fascinating. No one had bothered to make clear to him that they only lived in oceans, so these particular jellies would find themselves miraculously suited to their new environment.

“Oh, I could’ve told you that ages ago.” Crowley’s smirk was more than a little lecherous, and Aziraphale felt his face heat.

“Hush, you,” he said, and flopped onto his back so he would have an excuse to look at the sky instead of Crowley.

It seemed a minor miracle in itself that Crowley actually listened, and a silence fell between them that wasn’t as comfortable as it should have been after all their years of knowing each other. Aziraphale wished he knew how to fix that.

He could have said something, of course. After everything that had happened at that American airbase, consorting with a demon seemed a relatively minor offense, in comparison. But Aziraphale had used up quite a bit of courage on the whole Apocalypse thing, and the rest of it on inviting Crowley on this outing, and he thought he might have to let the supply built back up a bit before he had enough to spare on a conversation about feelings. Feelings he'd been wrestling with for decades, centuries.

Of course, the thought of feelings he'd just as soon avoid brought to the fore of his mind another set of them.

The ground felt suddenly cold against his back as his mind drifted to the End of Days. So many truths had been revealed that day. Not just about Heaven and Hell and the nature of humanity, but about Aziraphale himself. Truths he just as soon would have gone the rest of his existence without knowing.

Aziraphale closed his eyes against the beauty of the day, for it no longer fit his mood. A darkness had opened up inside him, and it threatened to swallow him whole.

"I was ready to kill that boy, Crowley."

The comment had come out of nowhere, and it was met with silence. Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut tighter, until he felt Crowley shifting beside him, and couldn't stop himself from taking a peek. Crowley had propped himself up on one elbow, and his expression was sober as he studied Aziraphale. He didn't seem surprised by the comment, nor did he need an explanation.

"I was the one who asked you to," he said after a moment.

"Yes, but-" Aziraphale stopped, but he'd said enough.

"But what? But I'm a demon, and you're an angel?" Crowley's expression was as ineffable as the Almighty's twice-bedamned plan just then. "Doesn't work like that."

No, it didn't. Aziraphale knew that now, no matter how hard the lesson had been to learn.

"But you only asked because you knew you couldn't do it yourself. You knew I could, when it came right down to it. I'm not quite sure I like what that says about me."

Crowley sighed, and flopped back down onto his back. They were both silent for a moment. The sunshine felt a little more anemic than it had a minute ago, but Aziraphale didn't close his eyes against it this time.

"You used to be a soldier, Aziraphale." Crowley's voice was gentle now, in a way that made Aziraphale think of a bus stop in the middle of the night. "Not just that; you were a commander, had a whole platoon of angels following you. You were the one who had to make those kinds of decisions. If you hadn't, it could've gotten the angels you were responsible for killed."

Startled into once again forgetting his moratorium on eye contact, Aziraphale turned to look at Crowley. He didn't think they'd ever talked about this before, not in such stark terms. To Aziraphale, it had always been too much of a reminder of what they were. They'd fought on opposite sides of the universe's first war, and it had been a brutal one.

War is hell, the saying went. It was more right than most humans knew. War wasn't just hell, war had _created_ Hell, and filled it with demons.

Aziraphale supposed that if he'd thought about it too much, he would have found it hard to believe that Crowley didn't harbor at least a little resentment over the way he'd been treated. But he didn't know how to ask about that, so he returned to the matter at hand.

"That wasn't me," Crowley went on, his expression darkening with some long-buried pain. "I wasn't responsible for anyone else, I was just- hurting. I didn't- the other rebels, I wasn't fighting for them."

Abruptly, Crowley averted his gaze. He'd been leaning towards Aziraphale like they were two kids tented under a blanket fort, up past their bedtime and swapping the secrets of the world. Now though, he shifted away, his body straightening as he rolled onto his back. He crossed his arms over his belly, and Aziraphale could see his throat working.

"I wasn't fighting for anything." His voice was little more than a whisper now. "I just wanted to make the pain stop."

Aziraphale's heart squeezed in his chest, so fiercely it stole his breath. So rarely did Crowley let this side of him show, that it was too easy to forget its existence. To forget how terribly he'd been hurt, at the beginning of it all.

He reached over, tentative, and laid his hand gently on Crowley's forearm. It occurred to him then that he'd never asked Crowley why he rebelled. It wasn't exactly the sort of thing that came up in casual conversation, but still...6,000 years was a long time to know someone, and it wasn't as if he didn't care. Perhaps he'd been afraid of the answer, afraid it would be something that made it harder to care for who Crowley was now.

Before he could say anything, Crowley shook his head and returned his focus to Aziraphale. His expression had smoothed over a little, and if there was any pain lingering in his gaze, it was hidden behind his glasses.

"Anyway, that's how I knew I could ask you," he said. "You've stood for something your whole life. I knew you'd be stronger than me."

"Oh, I don't know about that." Aziraphale squirmed uncomfortably. The way this was going, he almost wished he'd just started the other conversation about feelings. “You’re the one who convinced me to choose the right thing to stand for.”

Crowley opened his mouth to say something, but then couldn’t seem to find a thought willing to come out. So they returned instead to doggedly avoiding their emotions like the proper British gentlemen they occasionally pretended to be.

*****

Mercifully, the conversation turned to lighter topics after that. But Aziraphale couldn't forget the things Crowley had said, nor the way he'd said them.

That night, after Crowley had dropped him off at the bookshop with a casual wave and a squeal of tires, Aziraphale decided to try sleeping again. He was still more than a little unnerved from the last time, but perhaps it had been a mere fluke. A byproduct of all the stress of recent weeks having lowered his careful barriers.

And perhaps…well, perhaps there was a part of him that hadn’t minded the dreams so terribly much. Perhaps there was a part of him willing to put up with the confusion they caused if they also let him catch a glimpse of something he doubted he could ever have in life.

It was harder to fall asleep this time around, knowing what might be waiting for him. Aziraphale’s belly was gripped with a combination of trepidation and anticipation, and neither were ideal for rest. After almost an hour of lying in his rarely-used bed and waiting for unconsciousness to take him, Aziraphale resorted to a miracle - only a little one, really - to help things along.

_The room had few adornments and no appliances save a very archaic stove, but it was unmistakably a kitchen. A long wooden table in the center of the room was littered with eggshells and dirty bowls and vegetable peelings, and a clear spot at the end held only a steaming dish of…well, something vaguely brown. Crowley held a spoon over this dish, which accounted for the look of utmost trepidation on his face. A look that was plainly visible, for there was no barrier over his lovely golden eyes._

_“You do know that if this poisons me dead I’ll have to explain to my people why I ate something so clearly toxic,” he said, shooting a glance at Aziraphale._

_“You wound me, my dear. As if I would ever let anything happen to you.”_

_Crowley tried to scowl, but his eyes had gone too soft. He pulled a face instead, muttered something uncomplimentary, and shoved the spoon into his mouth. A moment later-_

_“Gah, blistering Satan, this is- how can you be such an expert on food but so bloody terrible at making it?”_

_“Oh dear, is it dreadful? I thought I-” _

_It was raining, harder than he’d seen since the Flood. Normally he might have done something about this, but he was too distracted by the screaming argument in which he was currently engaged. He had no idea what they were fighting about, but Crowley was standing five feet away from him and shouting, and he was shouting right back, and his blood was humming with fury and passion and something that felt like righteousness but was probably closer to petulance._

_“-could’ve gotten yourself killed, you stupid, featherbrained choir boy-” _

_“-control me, I still have a job to do and you’ve never had any respect for-”_

_Bony wrists were pinned beneath his hands, a naked body splayed out below him. Breaths coming in stuttering gasps, his whole body alight with a feeling like he’d never known._

_“Aziraphale- angel, please-” _

_He silenced Crowley’s whimpered supplication with a kiss as he moved inside him, bringing them as close together as he could while they both still maintained physical forms. Crowley’s wiry legs were wrapped around his waist, urging him closer still, and Aziraphale’s entire being was awash with heat and pleasure and need-_

He snapped awake in a different bed, quite alone. Breathing like a spent racehorse, heart stuttering and stomach in knots.

Aziraphale hadn’t gone to sleep with any genitalia to speak of, but the passionate desire of his dream must have driven his subconscious to will some into existence. Now he ached with hardness, with the need to touch and be touched. He bit his lip hard enough to bruise, and furrowed his brow in concentration, and the physical problem vanished.

But the emotional fallout could not be so easily dismissed.

Finding himself unable to remain in the bed, Aziraphale rolled to his feet and began to pace the small area of his bedroom. When that also proved unsatisfactory, he retreated instead to the kitchen, intending to fix a calming cup of tea. When that too was fraught with reminders, he stomped out to the back alley behind his bookshop, where he’d never had occasion to spend a single moment with Crowley.

It didn’t help much. His mind was still racing, his heart along with it.

Could Adam have done this? They'd known that reality had reset, of course, but did they truly understand what that meant? Could the changes the boy wrought on their lives extend further than repaired automobiles and buildings and the banishment of sea monsters? Perhaps he’d sensed how deep Aziraphale’s feelings for Crowley ran, and put reality back together such that…

Aziraphale clutched at his head.

No, that didn’t make any sense, and he knew it. Adam was a child, couldn’t have cared less about the interpersonal melodramatics of a couple of ancient celestials.

This was all Aziraphale, it had to be. He’d finally given himself permission to love Crowley, and his mind was supplying the rest. It was just doing so with rather a bit more…enthusiasm than he would’ve chosen consciously.

Slumping against the miraculously clean brick behind him, Aziraphale vowed to himself to avoid sleep from here on out. Not just because the depth of his fantasies frightened him, although it did. But it also felt…dishonest, like a violation, to participate in such dreams about Crowley without his friend’s knowledge or consent.

Even if he didn’t sleep for the next six millennia though, Aziraphale knew he wouldn’t forget what he’d already seen.


	2. Chapter 2

"You want to go to a museum?" Aziraphale's hearing had been perfect since Creation, but he still wasn't sure he'd heard that right. If Crowley didn't like reading, then he definitely didn't like standing around looking at faded relics of history they'd lived through themselves.

The demon had called him up out of the blue, six months after the world failed to end. This kind of thing was becoming more common, and Aziraphale couldn't deny that he was pleased, even if it did make the muddle in his heart that much trickier to manage.

_"Sure, it'll be a laugh. We can make fun of the historians for everything they got wrong."_

"Oh, I see." Yes, that did sound a bit more like Crowley.

Aziraphale found the idea of museums rather charming himself, so he didn't mind the prospect of a visit. It was such a human thing, collecting little bits and pieces of the lives of people that had come before in the pursuit of a better understanding. Of course, he couldn't say he approved of how a number of those artifacts got to the museums in the first place; there had been quite a bit of nastiness and plundering involved. But that was human too, he supposed.

The day had dawned cold and rainy, and quite a few people had decided to spend it inside the Victoria & Albert Museum. Aziraphale enjoyed seeing the different types of people all mingling together as they marveled over the same things. Tourists on their first visit stood beside Londoners who stopped by every other week, and they all shared the same spark of wonder that left the air humming with a quiet kind of joy that made Aziraphale wish he'd come here sooner.

That feeling of wonder did not seem to extend to his traveling companion. Crowley had been frowning since the moment they arrived, head on a swivel as he tried to take in all the exhibits at once. Since he seemed to know where he was going, Aziraphale elected to trail behind him, watching. Every once in a while, Crowley would let out a derisive snort as he read some placard or other, but considering this whole visit had been his idea to begin with, he didn't seem to be enjoying it all that much. At last, Aziraphale felt compelled to speak up.

"Is there something in particular you're looking for, my dear?"

"Nah." Except Crowley said it like a reflex, and a moment later, he shrugged one shoulder. "It's just. Well, I suppose it was only the past eleven years that Adam set right? He wouldn't have changed anything further back."

It was phrased like a statement, but his tone made it a question. A question that Aziraphale didn't want to ponder very long.

"No, I don't think so," he said. "He was rather clear, wasn't he? He made it so that he'd been human all along, so there had never been an Antichrist at all. That wouldn't have changed anything from before he was born."

But there had been changes, hadn't there? Aziraphale's bookshop hadn't just been restored to the way it was before the End of Days had inadvertently led to its destruction. And Aziraphale's relationship with sleep had certainly undergone an adjustment.

"Hoping the fourteenth century had gone a bit differently, were you?" He expected Crowley to take the opportunity to make some of the familiar old complaints about his least favorite period in their shared history. It didn't usually take much to get him going, and Crowley could be delightfully entertaining when he was annoyed. He had this way of putting his whole body into it that Aziraphale found mesmerizing. 

But Crowley didn't rise to the bait. His features had slipped back into a frown as he looked back at the shards of pottery he’d been eyeing.

"Come on," Aziraphale urged, hooking his arm around Crowley's and tugging him onward. "I saw a sign for a historical fashion exhibit. Let's go look at all the absolutely ludicrous things you used to wear."

"You used to wear them too, angel."

"Oh, not like you, I didn't."

*****

Much to Aziraphale's relief, Crowley's mood did lighten as the continued through the exhibits. Whatever had been bothering him before must have been successfully pushed out of his mind, and he rose marvelously to the occasion of making fun of history. He was particularly amused by the faded painting of a creature from folklore called-

“An _angelystor_?” Aziraphale read aloud.

"I didn't think they'd take that one seriously," Crowley said, grinning broadly as he pointed at the placard. It described a spirit that haunted a village churchyard and informed members of the parish if they were slated to die in the coming year. "Made it up drunk at a pub because the townspeople looked so bloody bored!"

“Oh, well I’m sure that story was a _welcome_ distraction.”

“Not my fault everyone was so superstitious back then.”

Mischief danced along the edges of his smile, and Aziraphale couldn’t help wondering just how many bizarre legends Crowley had planted over the years just to see if he could. He didn’t try too hard to suppress a grin of his own at the thought.

*****

After a couple hours spent wandering the museum, they both agreed that the time was right for a tea break. They made their way out to the courtyard, which was surrounded on all sides by the buildings of the vast museum. This place, too, was infused with the happy memories of the thousands of people who'd visited before. The fountain in the center bubbled with the echoed laughter of little children who'd splashed in it to cool off, and the grass around it bore the impressions of people who lazed around on sunny days after taking in their history. Faint melodies from long ago recitals warmed the still air trapped inside the space.

"You grab us a table, I'll take care of the tea," Crowley said.

Aziraphale cast a glance around the courtyard. Despite all the impressions it held, it was currently devoid of people, what with the rain pouring from the sky. Every one of the tables scattered around was unoccupied.

"Well, I do hope there's one left," he remarked dryly, and was rewarded with a quick grin from Crowley.

"Don't be afraid to fight for one, if you have to." And then he was off, sauntering toward the covered refreshment stand that was tucked away in the corner.

It took a moment for Aziraphale to realize he was still staring after Crowley instead of performing his own tasks, and he shook himself. This was starting to get ridiculous, even for him.

He busied himself with selecting a table, then drying it with a thought and urging the rain still coming down from the sky to fall elsewhere, if it would be so kind.

A minute later, Crowley was dropping into the seat across from him. He bore two waxed paper cups of tea, one of which he deposited before Aziraphale, along with a pastry.

"Fancy a spin through the gift shop, later?" he asked as he curled his fingers around his own drink. "Bet they have magnets."

Aziraphale smiled. He had been collecting magnets since people had been making them. To him, they seemed rather like little miracles that humans could use all on their own.

"Are you trying to set a record for how many times you can tempt me in one week?" he asked.

"Now, why would I do something like that?"

The innocence in his expression was not even remotely convincing. Aziraphale shook his head.

“I couldn’t begin to guess,” he said lightly, and took a sip from his cup.

He blinked. The tea was perfect. Not a generalized kind of perfect, like a circle that's been drawn by a machine or the crunch of fallen leaves underfoot on an autumn stroll. It was a perfect that was tailored specifically to Aziraphale, to the exacting tastes he'd developed over the years. The balance of milk, sugar, and just the slightest dash of honey, stirred just so into the tea so as to complement without overpowering.

A tight lump appeared in Aziraphale's throat, and he put the cup down as his eyes began to sting.

Oh, what a ridiculous thing to get worked up over. It was just- this was hardly the first time Crowley had done something like this. It was the kind of thing he seemed to do without thinking, so often that Aziraphale rarely noticed it anymore.

And that was his way, wasn't it? To talk a big game so no one would notice that when it came down to it, his actions screamed of something else entirely. They spoke of a person who cared deeply, if reluctantly. Wholeheartedly.

Too often, Aziraphale had let the misdirection work. Crowley’s demeanor merely echoed Heaven’s propaganda, after all, and Heaven was very good at propaganda. Particularly where Hell and its inhabitants were concerned. Demons couldn't love, that was the touted line. Just like they couldn't do good, or enjoy a sunset, or comfort an angel when he was feeling wretched.

Well, Heaven hadn't exactly spelled out that last one, but Aziraphale had no doubt it would have been on the list if any other angel had thought even for a moment that it might be something that would come up.

But Aziraphale knew by now that none of that was true. It had never matched up with what he knew of Crowley, not even at the very beginning. The person who had stood beside him on the wall of Eden and lamented the harshness of Adam and Eve's sentence, the person who would bother to save a stack of books when his feet were burning and the world was blown apart around him, the person who had tempted an angel into a bizarre Arrangement so that he got a chance to perform a few benevolent miracles again; that person had never been defined by Heaven's expectations.

And now, neither was Aziraphale.

Crowley seemed oblivious to Aziraphale’s internal melodrama. He was sitting in that careless sprawl of his, face tilted skyward despite the lack of sun overhead. He was beautiful like this, and Aziraphale recognized him for what he was: a work of divine creation. That would always be true, no matter what had happened to him after.

Quite suddenly, Aziraphale lost a battle inside himself. For all that he'd been fighting it for thousands of years, the result was rather anticlimactic.

"Crowley?"

The demon turned to him with an inquisitive raise of the eyebrow, but Aziraphale found he had no words to follow. He simply looked at Crowley, trying to reconcile all the different emotions that were bubbling through him all at once. It left him feeling decidedly...human.

"Spit it out then, you look like you've got indigestion," Crowley prompted.

Aziraphale sighed. There really was no help for it, he decided.

"Crowley, do you ever..." Here, Aziraphale paused to take a deep breath. It didn't help. He tried a different track. "You are my dearest friend, certainly you’re aware?”

At that, a multitude of expressions danced across Crowley's face as he began to sputter. Aziraphale, who had known this being for millennia, still couldn't make sense of most of them. He did however recognize the discomfited look upon which Crowley decided to settle.

"You, uh- that is, I mean come on. My reputation- what's it gonna do to my reputation if an angel goes round saying stuff like that?"

"What reputation?" Aziraphale couldn't resist teasing, and Crowley gave him a wounded look.

"I- _excuse _me, I do have one, you know. You don't get to be Hell's primary representative on Earth without one."

Aziraphale opened his mouth to point out that Hell's opinion of him had changed rather dramatically since he'd been given that assignment, but then he gave his head a little shake. That would be stalling, and he knew it.

"My point," he said, something inside him fluttering with nerves, "is that there is no one whose companionship I value more than yours. And I daresay you feel the same way."

If he'd ever doubted that, he couldn't now. Not when he still remembered with aching clarity the state he'd found Crowley in after Aziraphale's discorporation. He'd been as miserable as Aziraphale had ever seen him, mourning the presumed loss of his best friend. At the time, Aziraphale hadn't allowed himself to process everything that meant, but now he was fairly certain he knew.

Crowley didn't look like he had any plans to repeat the words sober. He had in fact shifted from looking mildly discomfited to looking like he was mapping out exit strategies. This didn't exactly surprise Aziraphale, so he didn't let it deter him, although his nerves did flare unpleasantly.

"So...have you ever thought..." Aziraphale took another deep breath he didn't strictly need, and scraped together the courage to continue. "Well, perhaps we could be more?"

And there they were: the words were out. Even as a new kind of fear rushed through him, he couldn't help feeling a delightful sense of lightness as well. For the first time in recent memory, he didn’t feel like he was hiding.

Aziraphale couldn't have said what he'd expected in response. Ideally Crowley would confirm he wasn't the only one experiencing such feelings. Maybe the demon would squirm uncomfortably and make a vague, rambling speech about some other topic entirely. The possibility of lightning arcing down from the heavens to scorch him on the spot for propositioning an agent of Hell wasn't far from his mind either, although he'd recently been putting far less stock in such things.

But Crowley defied each and every one of his expectations. Instead, for a split second, he went utterly still. The air itself began to crackle with a sort of energy no human would have been able to feel, but that made Aziraphale’s skin prickle.

"No," he said, and Aziraphale had never heard his voice sound so cold. No, not cold. Cold implied some sort of feeling, even if it was antipathy. This was...empty. "No, I really don't think we could."

Aziraphale frowned, trying not to let the sting of the rejection show and knowing he was almost certainly failing.

"Right," he said, scrambling to adjust to this unexpected and unwelcome turn. He worried pointlessly at the seam on the cup in his hands as he tried to think of something to say that would bring back the warm and peaceful atmosphere of moments before. "Right, I suppose it was a ridiculous idea. Angel and demon, and all that. And you wouldn't want silly old me anyway, not like that."

The muscles in Crowley's jaw were standing out, and had Aziraphale been listening more closely, he might have heard the crack of a few teeth giving way under the pressure of being ground. And could he have seen through Crowley's ever-present glasses, he might have caught a glimpse of the wretched anguish the demon was just barely managing to hide from everywhere but his eyes, which were, after all, windows to the soul.

But he wasn't, and he couldn't, and that is the way of tragedies, isn't it?

"Ridiculous," Crowley echoed, his voice a little fainter now but still hard and unreachable. His body had been oriented towards Aziraphale's, but now he hunched in on himself, cramming his body into the far side of his seat and folding his arms across his middle.

It was like watching physical walls spring forth between them, and Aziraphale found himself backpedaling desperately, scrambling to stop Crowley from pulling away altogether.

"Forget I said anything," he said, trying for an unbothered smile. Lord, but he hoped he hadn't just ruined things between them. Not after they'd made it through so much, not when Aziraphale was finally allowing himself his feelings. “It was just- a wild thought. A flight of fancy, as it were.”

It took a long, long moment, in which several different stages of panic gripped Aziraphale, but Crowley did speak at last.

"That's- sure. Right. Forgotten. Already in the past." Crowley's fingers drummed against his leg, his rigid stillness from a moment before now lost to the hum of nervous energy.

The words didn't bring Aziraphale any comfort.

His fears turned out to be well-founded when, less than ten painfully awkward minutes later, Crowley got up, stammered some excuses about finding a bathroom he couldn’t possibly need, and left. Aziraphale waited for him until alerts about the imminent closure of the museum began to sound, but he wasn’t surprised when Crowley failed to return.

*****

The remainder of the evening was quite miserable for Aziraphale. He replayed the disastrous conversation over and over again as he paced among the packed shelves of his bookshop.

How could he have read things so terribly wrong? He’d thought- could he really have been imagining all of the signs he’d thought were present over the years? Some part of him had entertained the notion that Crowley was just being patient with him, waiting until he finally came to terms with his feelings. How vain that seemed now. But to be so mistaken about the person he knew best in all the universe…

The questions and self-recriminations chased themselves round and round his head.

By the time the following morning came along, there was no help for it. Aziraphale picked up the telephone that never occurred to him as antique and dialed a number he knew by heart.

His stomach flipped over when he heard a familiar voice over the line, but sank an instant later when he realized it was just the automatic message Crowley had on his electronic letterbox.

Well, perhaps this would be easier anyway. Aziraphale could get through what he needed to say without fear of interruption or losing his nerve.

“Listen, I need to- er, that is, hello. It’s me. Aziraphale. How are you?” 

He actually waited a second, realized how idiotic he sounded, and considered miracling this entire painful attempt off the machine. But that seemed rude, and maybe his friend would find it entertaining, or at least pitiful enough to stir up some forgiveness. So he soldiered on.

“Right, never mind that. Listen, I do apologize for making things awkward yesterday. I didn't- that is, I am perfectly happy to carry on as friends. I just thought it- it seemed an avenue worth exploring, is all, but clearly you- well, I was apparently mistaken. And that's fine. Truly!”

Closing his eyes, Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose. This wasn’t going as well as he’d hoped.

“What I mean to say is, I hope this doesn’t change anything. I like what we already have, very much, and-”

He would have continued to ramble, but there was a dull beep from the phone. Apparently not even the machine could bear more of this.

Deciding not to dig himself in any deeper, Aziraphale set down the receiver with a sigh.

*****

After the stumbling phone call, Aziraphale didn’t try to find Crowley. Perhaps part of this was cowardice, or self-preservation, but it also seemed like the best course of action. He knew he'd crossed some kind of line, one that had kept their relationship safe for thousands of years, and something told him only Crowley could draw it again. So much had changed for them in recent weeks, and perhaps now Aziraphale was the one who had moved too fast.

So he kept his distance, and he waited.

It turned out to be harder than he expected, and it felt like much longer than the week it actually was before the bookshop doors swept open to reveal Crowley standing on the other side. He'd brought with him tickets to an international wine festival taking place that weekend, and little more had needed to be said. Aziraphale thought about attempting another apology, but his nerve failed him.

And so they returned to their strange new status quo. One in which they were freer than they’d ever been, but also subject to a delicate new set of rules. The first was to never so much as allude to what had happened at the museum, which Aziraphale abided by with the utmost strictness. Similarly, he made no gestures or intimations that could be construed as anything beyond friendship.

All in all, it wasn’t that difficult an adjustment. After all, he’d spent centuries hiding his feelings. He was masking them from someone other than himself now, but it wasn’t all that different really.

Really.

*****

When Aziraphale next slept, it was entirely by accident. He’d invited Anathema and Newt over for dinner, and they’d turned out to be quite the charming pair. Anathema had been quite taken with the atmosphere of the bookshop, and Aziraphale couldn’t have been happier to walk her through the shelves as he told some of the more entertaining stories behind the acquisition of certain books. It didn’t occur to him that this left poor Newt alone to entertain Crowley, who had turned up despite declaring a complete lack of interest in hanging about with the humans who had ‘hurt his car and cocked up the apocalypse by sheer accident.’

Newt didn’t happen to know that he was trying to make small talk with a demon, but it wouldn’t have made much difference even if he had. He was already nervous enough trying to get on with the bloke who dressed in all black and could stand unfazed before the four horsemen of the apocalypse. Like any self respecting demon, teenager, or the only printer in the building five minutes before an assignment is due, Crowley could sense fear.

So it didn’t come as much of a surprise when Aziraphale and Anathema returned to the kitchen to find that Crowley had managed to wrangle Newt into a drinking contest.

“Oh, Crowley, are you trying to kill the poor boy?” Aziraphale chided, hurrying over to snatch the glass of scotch from Newt’s unsteady hand. The young man made a noise of vague protest, which was quickly hushed by an exasperated Anathema.

“What? He asked me what my talents were, and I told him. Now I’m just, you know, giving him a demonstration.”

Rolling his eyes, Aziraphale took a seat between Crowley and Newt. 

“Well, if you want to give him a _real_ demonstration, let’s pit you against a worthy opponent, shall we?”

Over the course of the next hour and a half, two humans watched with increasing amazement and no small touch of concern as truly staggering amounts of alcohol were consumed. Anathema pretended not to notice, and Newt didn’t have to pretend, that bottles that had looked quite empty suddenly found themselves full again, only to be poured into glass after glass.

Eventually, Anathema had to point out that it was nearing midnight in order to put an end to the madness. Newt protested that he wanted to stick around to see how things would turn out, but she knew better than to indulge him. Aziraphale and Crowley had more or less forgotten about the two of them by that point, but Aziraphale managed to dredge up a few scraps of manners from somewhere in his liquor-soaked brain, and he got up to see them out.

He even, in a gesture he might not have been able to bring himself to make sober, gifted Anathema with a book from his shelves. It was a bone-dry tome about 17 th century Welsh irrigation practices, but willingly parting with it still felt to Aziraphale like a tremendous act of philanthropy. He congratulated himself profusely as he and Crowley watched the two humans retreating to the strange blue car that was parked on the curb.

“I think we ‘mpresssed ‘em,” Crowley drawled, his lanky frame propped against the doorjamb.

“We’re _impressive_,” Aziraphale agreed emphatically. “We’re good at- at all _sorts_ of things, you know? All sorts.”

“Yeah, like…like talking to ducksss. I tell you I talked to a duck th’other day? Nice duck. Told m’ where t’find good bread.”

“Ooh, where?”

“…Can’t recall.”

They somehow ended up in Aziraphale’s back room, where he kept chairs and a couch. They’d brought a bottle of bourbon with them to continue their interrupted contest, but it went forgotten as their slurring conversation turned into a debate about which civilizations had made the best bread, and whether or not cornbread counted.

“’Ss’right there in the name!” Crowley cried, flapping his hands. “Why’ld they call it corn_bread_ if it wasn’t-?”

“Pineapples aren’t apples!”

Crowley’s brow scrunched up.

“What’ve pineapples got t’do with anything?”

Fascinated, Aziraphale poked at the wrinkles over Crowley’s eyes. The warm skin changed shape as Crowley’s eyebrows went up, and Aziraphale ran his fingers over the smooth lines and ridges. A shiver rippled through Crowley and he tilted his head to rest against the back of the couch, his eyes closing.

Oh. That seemed nice. Aziraphale tried it again, stroking down the side of Crowley’s face this time.

“Mhm.” The hum of contentment was more of a sigh. The mumbled whisper that followed it was even fainter. “Miss you, angel.”

Aziraphale frowned.

“But I’m right here.”

Crowley didn’t reply. After a moment, it dawned on Aziraphale that this was because he’d dropped off to sleep right there on the couch.

It seemed like a good time to get up and do…well, something. Get a blanket for Crowley, perhaps, or clean up the dinner dishes, or find whatever book he’d been reading last. But it was terribly comfortable on the couch, especially with Crowley on it too, and he found he hadn’t the slightest desire to move an inch.

So he didn’t. Instead he let his head rest back against the cushions too, and- had his eyelids always been so heavy?

_He was lying shirtless on his stomach, bare arms folded before him, chin resting on a pillow, wings splayed out over the mattress. There was a cool weight pressing against the backs of his thighs, and an unbelievably gentle set of fingers was combing through his feathers._

_Oh. _Oh_. Aziraphale closed his eyes, a shiver of blissful pleasure rippling through him._

_“That feels _lovely_, my dear,” he murmured, wanting to share this._

_“Well, I do have miraculous hands.”_

_“Hm. Miraculous enough for me to look past the fact that you invented puns.”_

_“Some of my finest work, if you ask me.”_

_Too dreamily content to bother replying, Aziraphale simply let out a happy sigh and focused on the feeling of Crowley working carefully over his wings, righting the crooked feathers and teasing out the ones that were ready to molt. The comfortable intimacy of the moment enveloped him, and had he been pressed, Aziraphale wouldn’t have been able to think of a time he had felt so perfectly content. _

_Something tickled under his nose, and his whole face scrunched in response. He opened his eyes, crossing them to see the wispy down feather brushing against his skin. _

_“You know, if you put this stuff in pillows, you could sell them for a fortune,” Crowley told him, moving the feather to tickle over Aziraphale’s ear._

_Aziraphale gave the feather a puff that sent it dancing across the room, and hid a soft smile against his pillow. He’d been making angel down pillows for years, but not to sell to humans. They were for Crowley, who loved sleeping so much and always seemed to do it best when nestled in about a dozen of them. Seeing that made him a great deal happier than making some money off a few aristocrats would._

_"Yes, I'd imagine you're right," was all he said._

_“It has been known to happen, about once a century or so.”_

_Crowley scratched his fingers over a particular spot, and Aziraphale let out a low moan of pleasure. The scratching stopped._

_“Angel, if you keep making noises like that, I won’t be able to finish this.”_

_Breath catching, Aziraphale wriggled a little._

_“I hope you didn’t intend for that to make me stop,” he said._

_He felt the ripple of Crowley’s low chuckle, and then the press of lips against the base of his neck._

_“Hedonisssst,” the demon murmured, soft. He didn’t seem to mind in the slightest._

Aziraphale woke with his wings manifested, flopped out at his sides. Crowley was still dead to the world on the couch beside him, which was no small feat, considering the fact that one of Aziraphale’s wings must have smacked him in the face at some point. He was half buried under a mass of white feathers as it was. 

Shame burned through Aziraphale as powerfully as the desire had in the dream, and he snatched the wing back at once, standing as he did. He backed away from the couch so fast he nearly tripped over his own feet, and didn’t stop until his back knocked into the doorframe. He paused there, staring at Crowley’s oblivious form across the room.

His eyes stung and his chest ached, and he was gripped by a profound sense of loss. 

But that was ridiculous. You couldn't lose something you'd never had outside of dreams.


	3. Chapter 3

The anniversary of the day the world didn’t end (which is every day, really, but in this case refers to the date exactly a year after four children defeated a cadre of biblical horsemen on the tarmac of an American airbase) found Aziraphale and Crowley once more in Tadfield.

Human though Adam Young had apparently become, Aziraphale and Crowley both agreed early on that it would still be a good idea to pop in and check on him every once in a while. The boy seemed to be taking to humanity rather nicely, all things considered. Perhaps not having much time to get used to his unholy powers had eased the transition.

He'd handled the appearance of an angel and a demon in his life with remarkable poise as well, which couldn’t be said of just anyone.

Said occult beings were just on their way out after one such visit when something over Aziraphale's shoulder caught Crowley's eye, and he smirked.

"Well, that's appropriate, isn't it?" he said, nodding.

Aziraphale turned to look, and then gave a wry smile.

"Why yes, I suppose it rather is."

For of course the property next to where Adam Young had grown up contained an apple orchard. Of _course_ it did.

He looked back at Crowley, whose mouth curled in a crooked smile.

"For old times' sake?"

Aziraphale rarely needed an excuse to take a stroll on a pleasant day, especially if Crowley was the one asking, and he readily agreed.

Despite Adam sacrificing his power, a number of the changes he’d made to reality, inadvertently or otherwise, remained. One of these was the fact that the weather in Tadfield was always perfect for the time of year. Autumn had arrived a few weeks ago, and although the sun was shining overhead, there was a bit of a chill in the air.

Crowley walked a little closer to Aziraphale than normal, and the angel raised his body temperature accordingly. Human though he may have looked to an outsider, Crowley still had the cool blood of a serpent, and depended on outside sources for heat. He could of course warm himself with an act of will, but Aziraphale knew he didn't always feel like putting forth the effort. And if it kept Crowley closer to him, Aziraphale certainly didn't mind being warm enough for the both of them.

They didn't say much at first as they walked, both enjoying the day and the setting. It still struck Aziraphale, in moments like these, how very close they'd come to losing it all. The world he'd come to love so much, the peace he'd valued for so long, _Crowley_. Sometimes, that thought scared him, for he knew the reprieve was most likely temporary.

But today, he was filled only with gratitude and appreciation, and it left him content.

Of course, it was inevitable that walking through the verdant field, among the trees laden down with ripe apples, brought old memories stirring to the forefront of Aziraphale's mind. He found himself sending more and more frequent glances at Crowley whenever he thought the demon wasn't looking.

"You never wear your hair long anymore," Aziraphale remarked after one of these glances, eyeing the spiky amber tuft atop Crowley's head.

"Mmm?" Crowley ran an absentminded hand over the back of his head. "Oh, I s'pose not. Right pain in the arse to keep clean, I can tell you that much."

"It did suit you though." And it would have been so delightful to run his hands through. Although Aziraphale had never done anything of the sort in reality, he was quite certain of that.

"You think so?" A satisfied smirk tugged at Crowley's mouth. "Yeah, it did, didn't it? Well, it should come back into fashion one of these days. Things always seem to."

"Hardly, my dear. I have yet to see neck ruffles make their return, and togas remain limited to university parties, thank Heaven."

"Oh, I liked the togas!" Crowley protested. "So much breathing room in the nether regions. Plus, it was so easy to undo a fold here or there and watch them fall off senators in the middle of important speeches. Do you know how difficult that would be today? All those buttons and zippers and buckles and things; much harder to make it look like an accident."

Aziraphale's cheeks had gone warm at the thought of Crowley's nether regions, so he didn't have the presence of mind to scold him for the bad behavior of millennia past. Instead, he tucked his hands into his pockets and said the first thing that came to his scattered mind.

"I have no doubt you would be up to the challenge."

Of course, he regretted the words almost at once, when Crowley's entire face lit up with a spark of impish mischief that really shouldn't have sent lovely little shivers through Aziraphale's gut. Really, what kind of angel was he?

"Oh, don't even think about it," he said at once. "Really, Crowley, they have video cameras now! That kind of thing would follow a person around for their entire career."

"Yeah, it would." Judging by Crowley's tone of relish, Aziraphale's words hadn't been taken how they were intended. He did seem to note Aziraphale's expression though, because he nudged an elbow into his middle. "Come on, you can't tell me you don't think there are some politicians who deserve it."

Aziraphale opened his mouth to argue, but then found he couldn't.

They continued on in comfortable silence for a few more minutes. The orchard wasn't all that big, and Aziraphale knew that their walk would come to an end soon if he didn't do something about it. So he slowed to a halt by one of the trees, which had suddenly found itself the biggest and most fruitful in the field. It would stay that way for centuries, even as people stopped bothering to take care of the orchard, when the property had changed hands repeatedly until no one quite remembered how they’d come to have it.

One particularly scrumptious looking fruit caught Aziraphale's eye, and he tugged it from its branch. He buffed it carefully on his jacket before offering it to his companion, who gave him a smug look.

"Are you trying to tempt me with an apple?" Crowley's voice dripped with feigned shock.

Aziraphale felt his face heat a little, but he soldiered on. In for a penny, and all that.

"I suppose that depends on whether or not it's working."

"Angel, I am frankly appalled by your lack of propriety." But Crowley had lost a battle with his grin, and he plucked the apple from Aziraphale's hand.

Aziraphale had meant to pick one for himself too, but he got distracted by the sight of Crowley biting into the fruit. A ridiculous thing to be distracted by, no doubt, but he couldn't help it. There was a crisp crunching sound as Crowley's teeth broke the skin, and the muscles of his jaw and neck moved in a subtle dance as he chewed and swallowed.

He opened his mouth to take another bite, but then seemed to notice Aziraphale's - well, ogling truly was the right word for it this time. The flush in his cheeks hadn't gone away, and in fact seemed to be spreading.

"What?" Crowley demanded.

A bead of juice had gathered on his lip, and it drew far more of Aziraphale's attention than was by any means warranted. It quivered, sparkling in the late August sun, threatening to break free and slide down Crowley’s chin.

Without thinking, he leaned in and kissed it away. And once he'd done that, leaning away again didn't seem even remotely like an option worth pursuing.

It had been quite some time since Aziraphale had kissed anyone at all, but he never remembered it being like this.

How could something he'd never done before feel so natural, so right and easy? Aziraphale's whole being seemed to hum with the joy of it, and he couldn't help smiling a little as a surprised Crowley returned the kiss. He tasted like apple and the smoky afterburn of whiskey as he opened himself up, hands plunging into Aziraphale’s hair and gripping just the right side of too tight. The kiss turned into something eager, almost desperate, searching and hard enough to bruise. It was fortunate that Aziraphale didn’t need to breathe, because the kiss wouldn’t have allowed it. 

It was as good as it had been in the dreams; better even, because it was finally real.

But then it wasn't. Because then rough hands were shoving him away, and a harsh voice was cutting through the air. Aziraphale opened eyes that had drifted shut somewhere along the way to see Crowley backing away from him, shaking his head, his form rippling with the force of his agitation.

"Don't," he hissed, and even through his dark glasses Aziraphale could see the burning in his eyes. “You can’t touch- it’ss not like that, angel, I told you. I _told_ you."

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale gasped, stricken.

The rejection hurt — well, more than hurt, really; it felt like a flaming sword to the chest. Still, on another day, Aziraphale might have accepted it. Made his apologies, hidden his embarrassment, and tried to pretend the whole affair hadn't happened so that they could both continue on with their day. He would never ever think of continuing to push himself onto someone who didn't want him.

But he'd felt the longing in Crowley, he'd basked in the frantic heat of that kiss. He'd caught some of the gazes the demon sent his way when he thought Aziraphale wasn't looking. He couldn't find it in himself to believe that Crowley didn't want him, not now, not after all that. So he drudged up some courage, and he held his ground.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, meaning it. “I shouldn’t have done that without your permission. But why shouldn’t we, Crowley?" He kept his voice soft as he took a step towards his agitated companion, allowing a little distance to remain between them.

Crowley shook his head, and then shook it again. But no words came out. Aziraphale took another step closer, reaching out a hesitant hand.

"Is it because you're afraid I'd Fall?" he whispered, fingers meeting Crowley's cheek, caressing it gently. He couldn’t be imagining how Crowley leaned ever so slightly into the touch. "I'll admit, I was afraid of that too, but it doesn't matter. If Falling is the price of being with you, I'll pay it. A hundred times over, I'd pay it."

He hadn't quite thought about the reality of those words, not directly, but as he said them, he realized they were true. For so many years, he'd chosen Heaven over Crowley. But not anymore. Not ever again.

The realization was at once terrifying and exultingly freeing. He felt light as a mote of dust in a beam of sunshine, even as the weight of his declaration settled around his heart. For so long, he'd been struggling with this choice, with accepting that he'd already made it a long time ago. Now that battle was over. He'd chosen his side at last, rather than having it chosen for him.

Their side.

He hadn't expected the agony that twisted Crowley's features. He hadn't expected him to fist both hands in Aziraphale’s lapels, to shake him sharply, teeth bared in a fierce snarl.

"Take that back," he demanded, the words trembling on a line between furious and pleading. Panicked, even. "You can't mean that, you mustn't." He gave Aziraphale another shake, hard enough to make his teeth click together. "Tell me you didn't mean it."

"I'm afraid I can't, my dear." Aziraphale offered up a rather helpless smile. This wasn't going at all the way he'd hoped it would. "I think I've had quite enough of lying to you."

A tiny moan escaped Crowley then, and the sound shot all the way through to Aziraphale's heart. Was it really so terrible to Crowley, the thought of an angel loving him? He wouldn't have thought so a minute ago, but the way Crowley was looking at him gave him some rather serious doubts.

Crowley's grip on his lapels vanished as he backed away once more, hands rising to fist in his fiery hair. He doubled over, as if on the verge of being violently ill.

"Fuck. _Fuck_."

He looked positively devastated, in a way Aziraphale didn't understand but that pained him nonetheless.

"Crowley," he said, trying to step forward again, but this time Crowley didn't let him. He shook his head, continuing to back away. "Whatever's wrong, just let me-"

"You can't." The words cracked through the air like a gunshot, sharp and terribly final. 

Abruptly, Crowley's expression smoothed over a little, cooled into something that should have been an improvement over the agony but instead just sent a chill through Aziraphale. Because it looked terrifyingly like acceptance, and Aziraphale was utterly, sickeningly sure he wouldn’t like the outcome. Crowley straightened, his hands dropping back to his sides. 

"There's nothing you can do."

For a moment, the two of them just looked at each other. Aziraphale wished he could just _understand_, wished it didn't feel like something precious was about to slip through his fingers just when he'd thought he had it all figured out.

"So, that's that, then," Crowley whispered into the silence, almost too quietly to hear. Aziraphale was reminded of those alarming moments at the end of the world, when Satan's imminent arrival had robbed Crowley of his hope. Surely this couldn't be as bad?

Crowley's hand twitched, as if he wanted to reach out but thought better of it.

"Don't try to find me, Aziraphale.”

His edges blurred and rippled, and then he folded in on himself. An instant later, there was a serpent coiled in the grass where he'd been standing.

"Oh, don't," Aziraphale said, feeling a bit desperate himself now. "Please, Crowley, don't run from this. I'm sorry I pushed, that was wrong of me. Please, just- we can go back to the way it was."

Crowley slid across the grass toward him, and sinuous curves wrapped around his ankles once in something that felt quite like an embrace. Hope fluttered in Aziraphale's chest, and he thought for a moment that he hadn't made an irreparable muck of things.

But then the whisper of Crowley's scales vanished from his legs, and the serpent continued on into the grass. It stood high this time of year, and within moments, Aziraphale could no longer see the dark form of his best friend. It felt as though a part of him, some precious, irretrievable part, had vanished with the Fallen angel.

*****

Crowley always came back.

This was what Aziraphale told himself, over and over, in the following days. No matter what hurtful things Aziraphale did or said, Crowley had always returned for him.

Surely this time would be the same. 6,000 years of friendship couldn’t simply be _over_, just like that, because of a single ill-advised kiss.

And yet, each day continued to tick by without a sign of Crowley, until a week’s worth of them had accumulated, and then another. Aziraphale tried phoning him again, but the number he’d been using for the past decade or so didn’t connect. The line just kept beeping and going dead, no matter how many times he tried or rude things he called the receiver.

_Don’t try to find me_, Crowley had said. Aziraphale had thought that meant not to visit, but…no. No, it couldn’t be that he’d just _gone_.

_Don’t try to find me_, he’d said, but how could Aziraphale not? How could he act as if all those years of friendship, of Crowley being the most important person in his life, had never happened?

His flat, when Aziraphale miracled his way inside, was empty. Not just in the sense that no one was home, either. The flat had _been_ emptied, actively, of every piece of furniture or artwork, every plant and stitch of clothing, every sign that Crowley or anyone else had ever lived there. The space felt cavernous and cold with absence, like a tomb waiting to be filled.

“No,” Aziraphale murmured to himself as he turned around on the spot, as if Crowley’s things might have rematerialized while he wasn’t looking. “This…this isn’t how it’s supposed to go.”

This wasn’t part of their script, the dance of eons that had brought them here. They weren’t supposed to be lost to each other, not really. Not in a way that couldn’t be remedied with a quick search or a covert message.

And yet it had happened anyway. Aziraphale was standing right square in the middle of the irrefutable evidence.

*****

The weeks that followed were some of the least pleasant in Aziraphale’s recent memory. On the surface, nothing appeared to have changed. He still spent his days caring for the bookshop, made the occasional foray out to favorite restaurants, walked through the city on nicer days.

But the bookstore felt oddly dull and empty now that there was no possibility of Crowley sauntering in at any given moment, a bottle in one hand and a smirk on his face. Going to restaurants by himself now felt like less of a treat and more of a reminder of the times he hadn’t been alone. And his walks served as time alone with little more than his thoughts, which invariably turned to regrets and self-recriminations.

Why hadn’t he just followed the rules? Crowley had made clear what the boundaries were, and still Aziraphale had gone and let his heart take over. Could he really be doomed to spend the rest of his life paying for it?

Then there were the dreams. For the first month, he managed to keep his promise to himself, and avoid sleep. Not just because he was respecting Crowley’s privacy, but also because he feared the wrenching bereavement of awakening from his dreams. Never before had the life they offered snatches of felt so out of reach, and every time he thought about them, his gut twisted sharply. It was all but impossible to imagine a time when he’d been able to go centuries without word from his friend.

But eventually, inevitably, the time came when he missed Crowley so much that the thought of another day without even a glimpse of him became more unbearable than the prospect of losing him all over again when the morning came.

_He was trudging up a rolling hill, eyes on the familiar figure standing at its top. Crowley was silhouetted against the inky horizon as he stared upward, the sky a glimmering tapestry of stars and galaxies overhead. It might have been a peaceful image, if not for the heavy slump of Crowley’s shoulders, the misery that hung in the air around him like a persistent fog._

_So Aziraphale approached him, the distance between them stretching and evaporating in the nonsensical way of dreams. When he finally arrived at Crowley’s side, the demon didn’t acknowledge his presence right away. His beautiful eyes were unhidden tonight, and though they usually shone in starlight like twin celestial bodies in miniature, tonight they seemed dim._

_“Whatever’s wrong?” Aziraphale asked him at once, reaching out to cup his cheek._

_"They killed it." Crowley's voice was little more than a whisper, but it was full of such grief and pain that tears prickled in Aziraphale's eyes in response._

_"Killed what?"_

_"My star."_

_At last, Aziraphale shifted his gaze from Crowley’s face to the heavens, and squinted. The night sky looked the same as it always did on clear nights like this. It was beautiful to him, all the more so because he knew Crowley was responsible for its creation._

_"Darling," he said after a moment, apologetic. "I'm afraid I don't see what you mean."_

_Crowley sighed and took his hand, and a tendril of power slid into him. And then his eyesight shifted, colors changing and muting and patterns sharpening, and he knew he was seeing the world as Crowley saw it, through eyes that were more sensitive in the dark. Eyes that allowed him to notice the difference Crowley was pointing out to him, gleaming from within the constellation the humans called Cassiopeia._

_"It's brighter."_

_"That's because it exploded." Crowley's voice was somehow both harsh and dull at the same time, and Aziraphale winced. "Ripped apart from the inside out, and all anyone thinks down here is that it's beautiful."_

_A "guest star" they would call it, all of the stargazers and astronomers who noticed the supernova. Centuries would pass before anyone knew what it really was, and even then, no one would mourn for it. What, after all, is there to mourn in the reconfiguration of gas and rock thousands of light years away?_

_But Aziraphale wasn't thinking about the future, or what its inhabitants would think. All he cared about just then was that someone he loved was hurting, and he didn't know how to help._

_Not that it would stop him from trying. Nothing could ever stop that._

_He gave Crowley's hand a gentle squeeze._

_"Isn't that the way of things, my dear?" he asked. "You built the stars, you must have known they wouldn't last forever."_

_"You don't understand." The look Crowley turned on Aziraphale then was raw, full of hurt and anger and sadness. "That star is thousands of light years away. A little over 5,000, actually."_

_It took a moment, but then understanding began to dawn._

_"You're saying it exploded all that time ago, and we're only just now seeing it."_

_Crowley nodded, and his expression twisted. He turned his face back to the sky, as if unable to keep looking at Aziraphale. Or perhaps unable to look away from the ghost of a celestial creation breathing its last overhead._

_Neither of them had to say what else had happened a little over 5,000 years ago._

_Just holding Crowley's hand no longer felt like enough. Aziraphale stepped behind him and wrapped his arms around his slender frame, holding him close. He let his chin rest on Crowley's shoulder as they both looked up at the star that must have died around the same time a certain angel was cast out of Heaven for daring to wonder._

_They were both silent for a long moment. For his part, Aziraphale was trying desperately to think of something to say that would help rather than make matters worse. The timing was most likely coincidental. They both knew this though, and Aziraphale didn't think pointing it out would be helpful. That wasn't what this was about. Nor would it help to remind Crowley that the star wasn't sentient, and wouldn't have felt any pain._

_As he thought, he and Crowley stared at the expanding star. It really was beautiful, he couldn't help noticing._

_"You know more about stars than I do, but...they don't simply go out when they die, do they? They become something else?"_

_"Nebulae. They become nebulae.”_

_"And what do nebulae do?"_

_Crowley turned his face into Aziraphale's neck with a sigh._

_"They form other stars."_

_"So, that star up there...it hasn't really died, has it? It's simply transformed. Become something else beautiful. Something creative and brilliant, and...and a gift to everything around it."_

_Aziraphale's voice had gone softer now, for he knew full well he wasn't just talking about the nebula. Still, Crowley didn't say anything right away. After a moment, Aziraphale pressed a soft kiss to his temple, and went on._

_"But we're going to be able to see it up there for a little while, yes?"_

_Crowley nodded, still silent._

_"Right. Then every night it's visible, you and I shall come out here and look at it. We'll notice it. We'll care about what it went through to become something new."_

_The words felt right as he said them, but Crowley didn't react immediately. He leaned more heavily into Aziraphale’s embrace, soaking in the strength and comfort the angel was so desperate to provide. Aziraphale ached with his pain, ached with the depth of his love for him in that moment._

_“You know, don’t you?” Crowley twisted in Aziraphale’s arms, wriggling around to look at him with a touch of desperation, something almost frantic. “You must do, surely. I mean, after all this time-?”_

_“Know what, dearest?” Aziraphale didn’t know what had him so upset now, but he would do just about anything it took to make it go away. He stroked a hand over Crowley’s hair, trying to soothe. It didn’t seem to work._

_Crowley tangled his fingers in Aziraphale’s shirt, gripping tight. His other hand was on Aziraphale’s face, his touch burning with something that had nothing to do with temperature. His eyes blazed, their golden irises expanding to overtake any trace of white._

_“You have to know I love you?”_

Aziraphale awoke with tears on his face. It wasn't the first time he’d risen to a hollow ache like this, but this morning was different.

All these months, he'd been assuming that his dreams were just that—dreams, no matter how unsettlingly realistic. Manifestations of a subconscious rather more powerful than that of any human. But that last dream...he'd never had one like it, one that reached down into the heart of him and wrenched forth something he could never have created on his own. Nothing within him ever would have given Crowley that kind of pain. He couldn’t have fabricated the depth of that love.

It hadn't felt like a dream. It had felt like standing inside a memory.

As he sat there on the edge of his bed, something stole over him with the creeping inevitably of a midnight frost.

It wasn’t anything as defined as a specific suspicion. More like a sudden, inexorable urge. A need to understand, to look for a truth he was abruptly certain he lacked.

Frowning, he raised an absentminded hand to his cheek. The ghost of Crowley’s touch lingered there, like a shiver frozen in time.

He closed his eyes and turned his focus inward. The consciousness of an angel was staggeringly vast, and much of that was given over to storage space. On any given day, Aziraphale only accessed a fraction of this, as a simple matter of convenience. It had been quite some time since he’d felt the need to go rummaging through his mental attic, and it took a moment for him to remember his way around.

The first thing that came to him was his expanded awareness of his surroundings. Normally, his subconscious filtered out most of the things he didn’t need, like how people don’t see their nose until something reminds them it’s there. With him retaking manual control, that filter was gone, and for a moment he had to pause to sort through the onslaught of new information. 

He could feel the emotions of every human on his block, could hear every prayer being sent up anywhere in the country. It was a Sunday morning, so that was quite a few, and he almost got distracted by a little girl who was praying more fervently than she had ever prayed before in her short life for her teacher’s eyebrows to fall off.

But that cold creep in his gut was growing stronger, and Aziraphale pushed through the noise. He blocked out all external input and focused instead on taking stock of his own mind. Several millennia of memories was a lot to sort through, but he wasn’t looking for anything in particular. Rather, he was looking for something that didn’t feel right, something that stood out from the vast sea of recollections, mundane or otherwise.

Instinct made him take hold of the memory of his most recent dream, to use it as a starting point. Upon closer inspection, it didn’t have the soft, ill-defined quality of most of the dreams he’d had prior to the Apocalypse. Not like something born of imagination, but rather grounded in reality. When Aziraphale concentrated on it, he could feel the faint trace of its connection to something bigger, buried under centuries and something else.

Aziraphale latched onto that tenuous thread and began following it backwards. It led him ever deeper into the dusty vaults of his mind, parts of him he’d long since forgotten existed. He almost stopped to wave at the memory of bouncing Cain and Abel on his knees while he babysat during Adam and Eve’s date night, but he kept going.

As he dug, he found remnants of the other dreams from the past year, each of them with its own ghostly tether stretching ever further into the recesses of his mind. His determination grew as he traced them back, back, until quite suddenly he bumped into something foreign and vaguely sinister.

Aziraphale studied this new obstruction, probing at its edges with increasing indignation. The barrier was solid and imposing, with no beginning or end that he could find. There was something familiar about the feel of it, but it was an alien kind of familiarity, the kind that screamed of not belonging. It carved a swath through his memories, hiding away who knew how many behind it. So firmly was it set in place, so deeply rooted and interwoven amongst his memories, that Aziraphale knew it had been there for quite some time. Decades or centuries or even millennia.

Something was wrong with it though. Cracks webbed its surface, and the memories Aziraphale had been following traced back to these. Through them, he could feel the faint but stirring call of so many more struggling to break free.

At last, he had the beginnings of an explanation for the strange dreams that had made such a mess of his life. Like water through tiny cracks in a dam, memories had started to spew forth at random from this monstrous prison. Not knowing what to make of them, his subconscious had presented them as dreams.

But they weren’t. That much had become abundantly clear. Mere dreams didn’t come from behind a great ugly wall in one’s memory.

Emotions came more readily to Aziraphale with his internal barriers down like this, and incredulous anger began to swell in him, accompanied by anticipation tinged with fear.

The barrier may have been strong once, but something had damaged it. And even if that hadn’t been the case, Aziraphale was a Principality. No matter how soft he appeared, at his core was a ferocious, formidable strength. This monstrosity had only survived so long because he hadn’t known about it. 

Sudden, desperate determination joined the storm bubbling up inside him, and Aziraphale braced himself. He reached for the barrier, pressing against the cracks that had already begun to form in it. Almost at once, he recoiled. It _burned_, with a ruthless ferocity that screamed at him to turn back, to forget he’d even found this travesty lurking inside his mind.

One last attempt at defense, no doubt. But whoever had put this here hadn’t understood him in the slightest if they thought a bit of pain would deter him now.

He redoubled his efforts.

Unbeknownst to him, his flat began to rattle around him, and dust shook down onto the books in the shop below. Throughout Soho, Londoners were baffled as their phones began blaring a medieval battle song that had never been recorded by human technology, long since lost to history.

Strong as the barrier was, as long as it had been cementing its place, it proved no match for Aziraphale, not fueled as he was by outrage and curiosity and a love far mightier than either. So it was only a moment before, with a suddenness that nearly shocked him out of his focus, the walls gave way and shattered, releasing a tide of memory and emotion powerful enough to overwhelm him in an instant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear this thing has a happy ending please don't come after me

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr](https://drmcbones.tumblr.com/) if you wanna come yell at me


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